Dark the room, single candle flickered.
‘Twas not a room, but serves to call it such.
No walls or ceiling floor or door,
Candle hung suspended,
Projecting lines, like light, that did not shine,
Strung like webs that snared and caught
Imagination in its tensile thread.
At its centre, suspended, something monstrous,
Dark, consumed by ill-intent.

In the forest glade raced the Fae,
Questing, searching for the scent:
Stray words skittered shy of sun,
Searching also, seeking, hot pursuit,
For the way, the split, the wrinkle,
Furtive furrow, folded, in time and space,
Through which dreams seeped,
Interstitial pore, to stain the present,
In and out, potentiate, from and to
Places, Dark and Light, variegated intent,
Wherein dreams may beget
Brightest Joy, or Deepest Dark, Despair.